


Howls in the Night

by neverending_moomin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Animal Transformation, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Pre and Post Reichenbach, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:44:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8151130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverending_moomin/pseuds/neverending_moomin
Summary: John and Sherlock are turned into Wolves temporarily at Baskerville, when they're turned back, things have changed, they have changed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys, new work (and there'll be fewer notes on this one!)  
> This was meant to be a fluffy fill to get me writing again but turned into something less fluffy and much longer than intended - take it or leave it, I wrote it to get it out of my head, and I'm posting it because it's no good just sitting on my hard drive making me hate it.  
> Again, not beta'd and not as thoroughly checked as my other work so it's likely there'll be a ton of typos/mistakes and they're all my own.  
> Hope you enjoy it, if not, I'll admit I'm not that fond of it as it is anyway, but I don't have any time, effort or want to edit it anymore, so off it goes into the world.  
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters in this fic, Kudos to the BBC for their take on Sherlock and also this is entirely a work of fiction (in case you were worried ;) )  
> Special shout out to TinyNinjaQueen who is awesome, and encourages me to write (although she did say write something short - whoops!) Thank You.  
> Moomin xx

When Sherlock opens his eyes the first thing he notices is the bars in front of him. His eyes scan what little of the room he can see outside the cage, the spotless counters and science equipment. Baskerville. He recedes into his mind palace, trying to remember how he came to be here, but the door is locked. He lets out a frustrated sigh, which comes out as a growl, and its only then that Sherlock, the brightest mind in London, notices that which most people would have on waking. He's staring down a dark grey muzzle, his head rests upon forepaws, and, if he's not very much mistaken, his tail is swishing restlessly against the back of the cage. In short, he's a wolf. It takes Sherlock about ten seconds to process this, and file it away for later examination, for now he must focus on something more pressing; getting out and back to John. His thoughts stick. John. What if something happened to him. John was resourceful he knew, but Sherlock was always at his back in case things went wrong, now he knew nothing, and John was on his own. A deep growl rumbles through the wolf at the thought of John injured. He studies the cage around him, barely big enough for him as a wolf. Scrutinising the door, he works out the mechanism, easy as a man, but could prove challenging now. His ears prick up at the sound of the door opening, and he lets out a low whine. The technician crouches by the cage, Sherlock scrutinises him, young, male, sleeping with his brother’s girlfriend, hates his job. Perfect. Sherlock makes his eyes as wide as he can manage, letting out another whimper. The man’s gaze softens mildly.

"I'm sorry; I don't know what you did to deserve this. Still I can't do anything about it." He makes to stand. Drat Sherlock was losing him. He lays his head on his forepaws, gazing up at the man, his stomach gurgles. Perfect. The technician falters. "I guess I can feed you right." He says walking away. Five minutes later the door to the cage is opened, and a bowl of kibble shoved in. Sherlock snarls disdainfully at it as he launches himself against the closing door with all his might. The technician falls over with a yelp, a massive black wolf landing on his chest. As soon as he lands he's off, the main door is closed, and panic fills him, they're pass activated. His jaws close around the dainty card lying on the floor next to the man. It slips between his teeth. A frustrated growl erupts from his chest, and he tries again. It's clumsy, but the key card swipes against the door and a green light shows. Sherlock is out of the door and into the corridor beyond.

*  *  *  *  *

John blinks awake groggily. Shaking his head to clear away the sleep. His tongue is thick and alien in his mouth, and when he comes around properly he stares at the paws in front of him, at the dark black nose at the end of his vision, the tail which moves against the other end of the cage. Wait cage? John sighs. What’s Sherlock got him into this time? A possessive growl rips through him. Where is Sherlock? What if he’s in trouble? John throws himself at the cage door, all brute strength, the cage rattles and the door bows slightly. Again and again, the wolf throws himself at the cage. He’s sure someone’s going to come investigate all the noise he making, one last shove and the door gives, just as a security guard comes barrelling in. The guard’s eyes go wide, and he yanks out the gun at his side training it at John. The wolf freezes.

 

Sherlock’s keen ears pick up a commotion down the corridor to his right and he lopes along, he spots a guard barging into a room, and squeezes through the door just as it swings shut. He doesn’t pause when his brain registers the sight before him. Another wolf, frozen staring down the barrel of a gun. Sherlock propels himself over the other wolf, landing on the guard’s chest and tearing into the man’s throat. His powerful jaws lock around and crush the jugular. Blood fills his mouth and he spits it out, turning to face the other wolf. Warmth rushes over him, the wolf before him is so ... John. A light grey that deepens at his paws, shorter than Sherlock, as always but more muscled. John bounds over, licking the underside of Sherlock’s jaw and muzzling against him in a wolfish way. Sherlock returns the gesture, glad for his friend’s safety. The door bursts open and gunman flood the room, rifles trained on the wolves, who separate and brace themselves, growling. Mycroft Holmes walks in; the only sign of his anxiety the constant tap, tap tapping of his umbrella on the floor.

“Stand down” he orders and the guns lower, although Sherlock notices the men look no less tense. Mycroft appraises the wolves, scanning his brother.

“Sherlock, John. It seems you’re in a bit of a predicament aren’t you.” Sherlock growls at him, and Mycroft has the decency to look a little startled. “Four days” Mycroft says, answering Sherlock’s unasked question. Another growl. “It took time to locate you, and raise the force to take Baskerville.” Mycroft answers. “Shall we go, or do I have to put you on a leash?” He asks teasingly. John bares his teeth, a deep rumbling growl emulating from his chest. Six guns are raised, trained on him.  Sherlock nuzzles the side of his friend’s jaw, calming the other wolf. Mycroft grins, waving his hand, the guns lower. He turns and they all fall in line behind him. They must make a strange procession as they stroll through the corridors of Baskerville. Two gun men walk in front of Mycroft, waving their weapons around each corner they pass. After Mycroft two more gunmen, protecting the government official from the two wolves that followed, bringing up the rear a final pair of men, the sights of their guns never leaving the wolves. It puts Sherlock on edge. What did they think he was going to do? Attack his brother? He could admit he’d often thought about it, but never seriously, and not when John’s future depended on him. John trots next to him, brushing against the other wolf comfortingly. When they walk past a group of scientists, surrounded by Mycroft’s men, John growls, snarling and glaring. Sherlock lets their tails brush, and licks the underside of John’s jaw. John turns his head, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. Shivers ripple down Sherlock’s spine at the intensity.

*  *  *  *  *

The door to Mycroft's office clicks shut and the tension drains from everyone, the wolves and Mycroft. Turning to face them once more, Mycroft studies the wolves. They are standing a hairs width apart, one jet black, with mottled grey paws and soft white underbelly. The other a lighter grey, shorter too, his head coming up to the other wolf's shoulder - as always. They made quite a formidable pair. Mycroft smiles, somewhat sadly, and reaches into his inside jacket pocket. He pulls out a vial of clear liquid and exams it. Satisfied he picks up a syringe from his desk, drawing the liquid up he explains "I thought I should do it myself, I doubt you'd let anyone else near you, John certainly wouldn't." Both wolves watch him expectantly. "This will turn you back." Under his breath he adds "I hope." He takes a deep breath and looks at John. "John". Sherlock growls. Mycroft falters. "Okay" he sighs, and plunges the needle into Sherlock’s neck. A faint whimper is the only sound, other than the ticking of the clock, which seems to mock them. The wolves stare at Mycroft accusingly. "It'll take a while to take affect" Mycroft replies smoothly. "In the meantime, I will inject John also, I haven’t the time to be sitting around waiting for the two of you. I have matters to attend to elsewhere, I will be back shortly. Stay here." Mycroft removes another needle skilfully administering the second shot, and then leaves with a stern look over his shoulder. Sherlock sighs, and sits down lashing his tail. John lies down next to him, his head on the other wolf's paws. Sherlock huffs, laying his head on top of John’s and closing his eyes.

*  *  *  *  *

When Mycroft enters his office two hours later, he chuckles at the sight that greets him. Two men lie intertwined and fast asleep on his floor. John’s head rests on Sherlock’s chest and the taller man has his arms wrapped tightly around his friend. John stirs shifting away and blinking awake. He yawns and sits up, casting his gaze about. Noticing Sherlock John scoots away slightly, and brings his hands up to his face. Lacking John’s warmth, Sherlock opens his eyes and just stares at John, without the other man noticing. His face is full of adoration. Mycroft clears his throat, drawing the attention of both men.

"It worked" John's voice is hoarse and scratchy; he could do with a drink. Sherlock sits himself up. "Indeed. I suppose I should thank you." He says to Mycroft, although he sounds a little off, not as if he not thankful, but rather he's lost, unsure of himself for once. John nods his agreement distractedly.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock feels empty, as if something has been torn out of him leaving him incomplete. Not even a case makes him feel better (admittedly it was a cold case file that had been sitting in a pile on the kitchen table for a number of weeks). He flops down on the sofa dramatically, and watches John make tea. John doesn't seem any different. Only Sherlock. He sighs and turns his back on the world. John’s sets down a mug of tea on the coffee table, and taps Sherlock gently on the shoulder. "Teas ready" Sherlock grunts a response, not moving. Something that Sherlock had notice about John was that he was more touchy-feely recently, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, letting their hands brush. Sherlock too craved the touch; it was a wolf thing he realised. They were pack animals, and were always nuzzling each other, or simply brushing fur. The day after they returned from Baskerville, Sherlock had watched hundreds of videos of wolves interacting, hunting, and playing. Something had changed when he was a wolf, and not just physically. His phone buzzes and, with a dramatic sigh he gets up, standing on the table he spills hot tea on his feet. "Argh" he yells. John rolls his eyes.

"And that's why you don't use the furniture as a walkway," he says, handing Sherlock his phone and grabbing a tea towel. John bends and carefully wipes Sherlock’s feet dry. It's an intimate gesture, and Sherlock just watches, as John oh so gently dries Sherlock’s feet. John straightens and Sherlock hastily looks at his phone.

_Got a case for you. GL_

"Case John." Sherlock announces, stepping down from the table.

"You'd best get dressed then" John replies, indicating Sherlock’s current attire - a dressing gown tied loosely round his waist, and striped pyjama bottoms.

"Hmm" Sherlock agrees, and with a dramatic swish of his dressing gown, exits the living room. When Sherlock reappears, he looks delectable. John shakes his head delectable? He meant impeccable. What was wrong with him? His purple shirt was pulled taught against his chest, and tucked into fitted black trousers. When Sherlock bends to retrieve his shoes John gulps, Sherlock’s arse is....  John averts his gaze, not allowing the thought to continue.

"Mrs Hudson we're going out." Sherlock calls, as they leave. He's got better at letting people know where he was going over the past few days. Sherlock waves a hand and a cab pulls up. How does he do that? Thinks John. Whenever he tries either there’s none to be found or they ignore him. Sliding into the cab John’s hand brushes against Sherlock’s, it lingers a second before he pulls away, his stomach churns. Sherlock looks at him, but John won't meet his friends gaze, staring pointedly out the window. When they reach the Yard Sherlock shoots out of the taxi, leaving John to pay the cabbie. He sighs, following his friend of into the building.

"Donovan" Sherlock greets as the frizzy haired detective walks over to them.

"Freak!" She sneers in reply. John growls at her, a rumbling sound he didn't know he could make until now. Sally looks surprised, her gaze darting to the unassuming blond who takes a step forward to defend his friend. John feels a pressure on his arm, and finds Sherlock has wrapped a hand round the appendage and is holding him in place. John meets Sherlock's eyes, and the raven haired man shakes his head.

"It's not worth it John. She's not worth it." Sherlock's voice is low, and gravelly. He raises his voice to a normal level, and addresses Sally. "I see Anderson's wife is out of town again." He smiles patronisingly. "His floors must be sparkling by now, all the time you spend scrubbing them." He breezes past her, John following in his wake and allowing himself a small smile at the thunderous expression on Donavan's face. Sherlock marches straight into Lestrade's office, and flops in a chair, staring at the man in question.

"Detective Inspector."

Lestrade puts down the phone and appraises his guests. "Four days, Sherlock. You didn't return my calls for four days, and now you come waltzing in like everything's fine. And you." He turns to John. "I expect to be ignored by Sherlock, but you couldn't even drop me a line to tell me what the HELL is going on." Lestrade is angry, John feels himself get worked up. How dare Greg talk to them like that, they'd been kidnapped! And it’s not like they needed to let him know what they were doing 24/7 in the first place. He opens his mouth to retort but Sherlock beats him to it, cutting in coolly with.

"We were kidnapped Lestrade, what did you expect, a postcard? Honestly, I thought you called us in for a reason, a case. You promised me at least a seven now where is it?" Sherlock scans the desk whilst Greg sits there spluttering.

"Kidnapped! Why didn't I hear something? There must have been an investigation."

"Use your brain Lestrade, what little you've got, my brother is the British government, he handled everything, as is his tendency to stick his nose where it doesn't belong. Now focus. The case. I need a case." Sherlock is standing now, pacing. He's been even more full of restless energy since the kidnapping. Lestrade sighs, scrubbing a hand across his tired face.

“Well, I suppose I could use your help on something.”


	3. Chapter 3

"JOHN!" Sherlock screams, ahead of him John is being dragged into a car, bleeding profusely. Sherlock pumps his legs, as the car pulls away. If only he could run faster. Every fibre in his being screams in pain, a pain he’s felt only once before, and then his vision blurs coming back into a startling clarity of focus, the colours skewed making the world at once darker, and he's running faster than he ever has before, low to the ground his paws hit the ground with such force he's propelled forward in a leaping sprint. He's gaining on them. He doesn't pause to think about the change to wolf, all that's running through head, like a mantra, is John.  John.  John.  John. His John, in the hands of a murderer. His blood boils.  His whiskers brush the back if the car just as police vehicles cut it off, forcing the driver to swerve to a halt. Sherlock’s human hands scrabble at the door, and yank it open, pulling John out of the car and into his lap. "John" he whines. Hands pressing against the man’s side stemming the blood flow. His face is wet he realises, from tears. It's the first time he's cried in years. But he can't lose John, John is his pack, and without him Sherlock would be lost. Lestrade drops to his knees beside Sherlock, and sirens blare. Sherlock stares at John’s pale face for a moment longer, and then the paramedics take over, crowding him out, forcing Sherlock to stare only at the stickiness on his hands, the reflective sheens on the paramedics’ coats. He turns tail and runs. He can't be seen right now, tear tracked, trembling, John’s blood on his hands. He resists the change, running, stumbling, the whole way back to Baker Street human, and slams the door behind him. Too much emotion, pouring in, he can't breathe. He needs, he needs... He drops to the floor a wolf, the emotions retreating slightly. The wolf is colder, less attached, like Sherlock used to be. He lopes up the stairs, and lies on the sofa, staring at the door. His pack mate is in danger, and Sherlock has deserted him. Shame washes over the wolf and he whimpers, curling in on himself.

 *  *  *  *  *

The light fades, the wolf doesn't move, just stares at the door, waiting. Eventually the door creaks open, and John limps into the flat. When he sees the wolf all anger leaves his face and he scrambles over to join his pack mate, now a wolf also. He settles down beside Sherlock on the sofa, pressed against the other wolf. John licks the underside of Sherlock’s jaw, telling him it’s okay, he understands. Sherlock just looks at his friend. John snuggles closer and falls asleep, drained from the day’s exertions and blood loss. It's several more hours before Sherlock lets himself drift off. They wake to the morning sun streaming in the window and onto the sofa. John is wrapped in Sherlock’s arms, his head on the other man’s chest. The sofa is barely wide enough for them both as humans and John is surprised he hasn't fallen off yet. Sherlock stares at John for several moments, John stares back.  Suddenly Sherlock moves. Twisting 'till John’s pinned underneath him. Their lips collide. John brings his hands up and twines them in Sherlock’s shirt, pulling him closer, mouth moving against the other mans in urgent hungry kisses. Sherlock’s tongue slips between their lips and into the warm crevice of John mouth. He shivers in pleasure. John’s whole body is tingling, and he can feel Sherlock brushing against him. Abruptly Sherlock pulls back, looking wild, hair standing every which way, lips red and swollen. He scrambles away from John and launches himself out of the flat. John just lies there, in shock, he hears the front door slam, and yet he can't bring himself to move. His mind is racing.

 

When, several hours later Sherlock hasn't come back or at least texted. John starts to worry, pacing back and forward first as a human and then as a wolf, growing more and more agitated. A knock on the door makes him shift back startled, opening the door hurriedly he hopes to see Sherlock, but it is Mycroft Holmes who stands in the doorway. At least he had the decency to knock. John barely contains a growl of frustration. Mycroft regards John, deducing all he needs to know.

"Why didn't you go after him?" The older Holmes' tone is cold. John swallows, looking away ashamed.

"I... I needed time alone too, it's a lot to process, I thought he'd be back by now." John confesses weakly. "Where is he?" He pleads.

"Last my cameras saw he was heading into Hyde park, a wolf." Mycroft's message is clear. Sherlock needs John. His pack mate. John nods, scrubbing his face with his hands. He grabs his coat and follows Mycroft downstairs and into the awaiting black car. Ten minutes later the car pulls up and John scrambles from the car a mixture of excitement and dread.  He makes it past the tree line before he changes, but only just. As soon as the change takes affect he can smell Sherlock’s scent, he follows his nose, and slowly he walks to the other wolf lying under the shade of a large oak tree. John keeps his head low to the ground, a sign of respect, trying to make amends. Sherlock growls, the intention clear. You are not less than me John. Get your head up. John stretches his head out till their noses just brush and then lies down in front of Sherlock, staring into those dazzling eyes. A few heart beats pass and Sherlock changes, John follows suit. Somehow this wolf-human thing was easy now it had been unlocked. John pulls Sherlock to him, just hugging the other man. "I'm sorry." He says into Sherlock’s ears, burying himself in Sherlock’s scent.

"For what happened?" Sherlock asks almost panicked.

"No" John says with a small smile. "I'm sorry for not coming after you, for pushing you."

"You didn't push me I initiated it John, or have you forgotten." Sherlock sounds almost like his usual self until he adds, "sorry for running off." John pushed him back slightly. Searching Sherlock’s face.

"You had every right, I needed a little time myself." John pauses. "But I think... I think I'm past that now."

John initiates the kiss, it is softer and more romantic than the first. Gentle and light. Sherlock cups John face in his hand, the other resting lightly on John’s waist.

"Pack mate" Sherlock growls. John starts, Sherlock understood.

"Mine" he responds, depending the kiss. When they break apart they're flushed and happy.

"Yours" Sherlock confirms. John whines low in his throat, surprises the both of them, he eyes Sherlock’s neck hungrily.

"I want you to wear my mark Sherlock, the wolf wants everyone to know your taken, mine." Sherlock nods, tilting his head to expose more of his neck. John pounces, nipping Sherlock’s neck, sucking at the proffered skin. Sherlock whimpers, and John immediately pulls back, but the detective smiles, pulling John back towards him.

 

When they exit the park dusk has begun, cloaking the city in warmth as streetlights come aglow. Hand in hand Sherlock and John pause to survey their city – London.

"Dinner John?" Sherlock queries.

"Starving."

"I have a theory about that actually, we always seem to be hungry after we transform." Sherlock prattles on about transformation and immense strain on the body, but John tunes him out slightly, focussing instead on the feel of Sherlock’s hand in his, the way his partners eyes light up and he gestures widely with his free hand. John smiles contentedly.

*  *  *  *  *

 

"Welcome Sherlock, John how good to see you. I'll get a candle for your table, it's more romantic." This time when Angelo says this John doesn't protest. It _is_ more romantic.

"Our first date was here" John says, a soft smile on his face as he glances round. Sherlock looks at him quizzically, " **is** , you mean."

John shake his head. "Killer cabbie don't you remember. If we're being honest that was our first date." He shrugs. "I may have denied it, hell I didn't even realise it till the wolf brought it forward, but I have always been in love with you Sherlock." John’s voice is filled with sincerity, though he blushes when he realises what he just said. Sherlock smiles.

"I love you too John."


	4. Chapter 4

Their new arrangement isn't much different than before, except John now wakes every morning with Sherlock beside him. Every morning without fail. Sherlock has taking a liking to sleep now he has John to fall asleep with. (Okay so most nights he doesn't actually sleep just lies with John thinking or working. But what John doesn't know can't hurt him.) The week after their profession of love, John is standing in the kitchen making scrambled eggs for breakfast. Sherlock tracks his movements with his eyes, for once he's not bored, despite the fact they haven't had a case in over a week. Sherlock drinks in his John, moving about the kitchen and humming slightly. John turns and places the eggs down in front of Sherlock with a flourish. Sherlock looks at the plate with some disdain. To tell the truth Sherlock doesn’t like scrambled eggs. His eyes flick up to John who is looking at him hopefully as he tucks into his own. Sherlock picks up his fork gingerly and scoops some breakfast into his mouth. The eggs are better than he's had in a while, but still the texture puts him off. He manages a few mouthfuls before he puts the fork down again. His phone chimes. John watches as Sherlock’s eyes light up.

"Case?" He asks, clearing away their plates as Sherlock stands. The man himself nods distractedly, typing out a reply and navigating the living room. He goes to stand on the table but stops at the last moment, shooting John a mischievous smile and circling around it instead. John picks up his coat from the back of his chair, where he left it the night previous. They exit the flat together, sliding into the cab and holding hands. "Regent Street" Sherlock instructs and John’s eyes widen in surprise. They get stuck in traffic as the cab rounds into Regent Street, and Sherlock leaps from the cab, thrusting notes at the driver. Sherlock reaches for John’s hand as they walk down the road, but John doesn't take it, shooting an apologetic glance Sherlock’s way. The other man ignores it, lengthening his stride. The source of the traffic becomes apparent as they near the police cordon. Lying face down in the middle of the road is a male maybe fifty; Sherlock appraises him from afar, and is moving for closer inspection when Lestrade walks over to them, face grim.

"Jonathan Briggs, bank cashier in the metro bank across the road." Lestrade gestures. "Found like this in the early hours - around four." Sherlock looks scandalised.

"And you're only calling me in now?" He looks at his watch. 7 am. Lestrade shifts awkwardly from foot to foot.

"We weren't called in till 6, that's one if the discrepancies we want to clear up, thought you could help." Lestrade looks hopefully at Sherlock, who is frowning.

"The bank, you think they had something to do with this. I assume someone let slip that he was discovered at 4?" Greg nods. "The manager shut them down before they could reveal anything else. We've separated everyone and are holding then for questioning. Anderson only got here about 15 minutes ago, I'll tell him to bugger off while you look around." Greg adds with a smile.

"John examine the body please. I have all I need for now; I shall be interviewing the suspects if you need me." Sherlock says, dropping a kiss on John's cheek. John flushes and watches Lestrade raise an eyebrow, a sly grin stretching across his face. Sherlock turns oblivious, and marches off.

"Piss off." John mutters to Lestrade.

"Would you care to explain then?" Greg asks.

"No." John replies, crouching down to examine the body, he rolls it slightly and examines the face and neck.

"Let me see, I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I reckon you and Sherlock are a thing now. That wasn't a sign of friendship, that was relationship material right there." John glares at his friend.

"Certain circumstances have meant that we are, that is we realised.... err..." He sighs, running a hand through his hair, and mumbles. "I love Sherlock." Greg doesn't say anything for a moment and John snaps his head up to look at his friend. A sincere smile is blooming across Lestrade’s face.

"I'm really happy for you two, mate. It's about time you worked out you're crazy for each other."

"Yes well.... err... So this body then. Asphyxiation I'd say." Lestrade’s eyebrows rise.

"Anderson thought blunt force trauma."

John shakes his head. "It's been made to look that way but actually its asphyxiation. Look you can see the bruising around the throat. I'm no Sherlock either, but my money's on the bank higher ups, accident maybe but definitely suspicious." The words have hardly left John’s mouth before Sherlock come striding over, looking mightily irritated.

"Not even a seven Lestrade. It's all in the shoes, how many times do I have to tell you. Bank manager and his assistant." John smirks at Greg who rolls his eyes. "Come along John." Just then a shot rings out. Sherlock freezes, dropping to his knees. Blood is spreading a stain across his white shirt, and his eyes are glazing over. "John" he rasps. John springs into action, hands ripping Sherlock’s jacket off and applying pressure to Sherlock’s shoulder. His hands are covered in Sherlock’s blood in seconds. Lestrade is yelling for an ambulance and John distantly hears the click of cuffs as the assailant is taken away. He focusses on Sherlock, his chest is barely moving, and his eyelids are fluttering.

"Sherlock, Sherlock look at me." John casts his mind about for something to occupy Sherlock’s attention. "Sherlock can you tell me why it's the bank cashier, what is it about those shoes? Hmm?" Sherlock mutters something incomprehensible, and John’s heart jumps to his throat. He's pushed out the way as paramedics take control. Sherlock is loaded onto a stretcher, and lifted into the ambulance, paramedics working on him all the time.

"Please, I'm his ..." What is he to Sherlock? His friend? His boyfriend? "...Doctor" his brain supplies. The paramedic nods distractedly and John clambers into the back of the ambulance. He takes Sherlock’s hand and clutches onto it for dear life.

*  *  *  *  *

 

When Sherlock wakes his shoulder throbs dully, and his brain is a scrambled mess of drugs and confusion. He opens his eyes slowly, and spots John, fast asleep in the chair beside the hospital bed.

"John" he tries to say, but his throat is dry and scratchy, the syllables not forming in his mouth. Still, John jerks awake and, seeing Sherlock with his eyes open, his face lights up. John picks up a glass of water from the bedside table and slips the straw in Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock takes great big gulps, the cool water sliding blessedly down his throat. Something sticks and he coughs, heaving coughs, which jar his shoulder and send sparks of pain shooting through him, he sees stars. John’s hands guide him back against the headboard, and slowly Sherlock’s vision clears.

"John" Sherlock says, it's the only thing he can think to say.

"I'm here Sherlock, I'm always here." John caresses Sherlock’s hair. "You scared me back then; don't ever get shot again okay." He smiles as he says it, but the serious undertone spoils the effect. Sherlock nods, he never intended to, the pain rippling in his shoulder makes him grimace. He suddenly understands how John's shoulder can bother him so much now.

"Hey," he says, reaching out his good arm to cup John’s face. "Now we match" he moves his hand down to John's shoulder, hovering above the scar. A smile creeps onto John's face. Mycroft clears his throat from the doorway, interrupting the moment. Sherlock glares at his brother.

"Got yourself shot I see brother, how careless. It's a good a good job your boyfriends a doctor, you lost a lot of blood, might even have bled out if not for John’s quick reaction." John flushes as Mycroft puts a label to their relationship, but when the elder Holmes takes a step forward, into the room, a snarling mass of wolf takes John’s place. “My, my, protective aren’t we.” John growls low in his throat, shifting back reluctantly as Sherlock places a hand in his fur.

“Leave it John.” The blond stands abruptly, muttering about getting some air and roughly pushing past Mycroft. The brothers watch him go. “He’s an alpha whose mates been injured, having another alpha around is never a good idea. Whilst the human knows you’re my brother, the Wolf only sees the threat you pose. He’s confused, it’ll pass.” Sherlock explains when Mycroft raises a questioning eyebrow.

“You think I’m an alpha?”

“Of course you’d be an alpha Mycroft, you like to be in control, dominant, you run a government, and we haven’t got a long since we were children, which is because we’re both alphas, and we naturally collide. Humans just call us headstrong and see a petty children’s feud, but put into context with the animal world and it’s obvious really.” He rolls his eyes at his brother’s ignorance, “Animals are so much easier to figure out than humans.”

“Well, either you’re ill, or you’ve just changed from this experience. Either way, I’ll bid my leave, the Chinese president – well, you don’t need to know about that, do you. Give John my well wishes, won’t you.” And with that, the British government exits Sherlock’s room. Not ten minutes later, John is back, visibly more relaxed.

“So, Boyfriend, huh.” He says, a little awkwardly.

“I prefer Partner, or Mate. But if you really must, I suppose boyfriend would do.” The detective answers, rubbing his shoulder to work out some of the pain.

“Partner sounds good to me. No-one but us will understand Mate in our context, but that’s okay, I know you’re mine.” John grins.

“Mmm,” Sherlock agrees. “Now, when can we go home.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys,   
> We jump in time a bit here, and also straight into the feels - this one's kinda sad (it's Reichenbach you've been warned). I had wanted to write a bit more fluff between the last chapter and this one, but I have no time or want to write this anymore, so sorry.  
> Thanks to everyone whose read this and/or given kudos, you make my day and give me cause to smile.   
> All my love,  
> Moomin x

John’s eyes are fixed on Sherlock, his whole body is trembling, the urge to run to his mate, catch him, is overwhelming. But his feet remain rooted to the spot, obeying Sherlock’s wishes. He feels the tears as they come trickling down his face, leaving hot trails down his cheeks.

"John" Sherlock’s voice breaks and John can imagine the other man’s tears. When Sherlock chucks the phone behind him, holding John's gaze for one last second before he falls, John's heart breaks. A scream rips from his throat, and his vision blurs. He stumbles forward, but is knocked down by a cyclist. Bloody cyclist. The pavement is coarse and gritty beneath his cheek, if it weren't for the fact he needs to see Sherlock, he wouldn't get up, the crushing weight of loss bearing down on him. Everything around him is in hyperdrive and it seems he is moving so slowly. The corner of the ambulance station comes into view, and he pitches forward again, Sherlock’s form is lying crumpled on the pavement, a crowd is already gathering, and John fights his way through. He collapses at his mate’s side, hand reaching out, feeling for a pulse. A moment, then another. No heart-beat. John’s broken heart shatters into a thousand pieces, he can't get up, can't move. Hands on him, everywhere. People. People. People. He fights the wolf. He blacks out.

*  *  *  *  *

After Sherlock falls John howls for three nights straight. By which point Mrs Hudson is taking twice her normal dose of herbal soothers to sleep through, and Mycroft has fielded six complaints from the neighbours. On the fourth morning, Mycroft turns up at Baker Street. A light grey wolf is lying on the carpet despondently staring at the door. He looks so lonely, and incomplete that it pulls at Mycroft's heart.

"John," the wolfs gaze flicks to his. "Mummy has invited you to the cottage for a few weeks, she's concerned about you, we all are." Mycroft's words are tender, and caring. John stands slowly, approaching Mycroft. He licks the man’s hand gently, then turns away,

"I can't force you John." The wolf snorts. "But I think it would be best. You haven't eaten in days John, Sherlock wouldn't want you to waste away over him, would he." John’s eyes darken, and Mycroft shifts uncomfortably, dropping his gaze slightly, so as not to look the wolf in the eyes. After what seems an eternity, John shifts, as a man he looks like death warmed up. His skin is pale and gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes and the same dirty, bloody clothes as when Sherlock fell. He trudges down the stairs after Mycroft, and crawls into the idling car. He sleeps the entire ride there. It's midday by the time they arrive and Mummy Holmes has set out a spread. John takes one look at it and his stomach growls and gurgles.

"Why don't you wash up before we eat John, your things are in the spare room."  She doesn't mention the fact that last time John was here, he had shared that room with Sherlock. He turns away and makes for the bathroom. The water is scalding hot, and it thunders down on John, who stands inert under its spray. Finally, he moves, methodically cleaning himself. When he steps out he feels refreshed, but no less empty. He dresses quickly and sits at the dining table. The food is good. John says so, he's being polite as always, it was ingrained in him, but it comes out a little hollow. Mummy Holmes smiles when he speaks, relieved, and flattered.

"John dear you're too kind." When the meal is finished John is surprised that Mycroft doesn't leave.

"You not got important government work to be doing Mycroft?" His voice it just a little bitter. Mycroft should have been able to stop this.

"I'm on family leave. The Bulgarian prime minister can wait." Mycroft says attempting humour.

"I see, you want to keep an eye on me do you, after you failed with S..."John chokes in his name, he can't say it. He's angry again, worked up and it feels good to feel something again, after days of emptiness. "You failed Mycroft, he's dead and its all your fault. Don't give me that bullshit about being unable to help or giving him space. You could have stopped it, and you didn't." All at once he's a wolf, and Mycroft steps back, clearly worried John will attack him. But he doesn't, the wolf just brushes past and out the cottage into the woods beyond. He hears Mummy calling after him, but ignores her. He can't do it, he can't go on without his mate, his pack. He curls up in the foliage and falls asleep, whimpering for Sherlock. When he wakes he's in the house, a human. He stares up at the ceiling of the spare room, contemplating death. Just as he's worked out how he'd like to go, Mycroft appears in the doorway.

"John, you're stronger than this, and you know he wouldn't want you to do this, to even contemplate it." John leaps up and crosses the room in one stride. He grabs the front of Mycroft's suit.

"Don't you dare tell me what he would want, throwing him back in my face. He may be your brother but he's my mate." He snarls. His face crumples when he realises what he said. "Was. He was my mate." At that John sags into Mycroft, the tears flow for the first time. "I can't do it Mycroft, he was my everything, I can't be strong after this, not like after the war, the wolf won't let me, it wants our mate. I need Sherlock." John whimpers into Mycroft's shirt. The elder Holmes holds John, lets him get it out. He accepts the blame; after all it was his fault. He almost breaks down and tells John.  But he can't.

At dinner that evening, Mycroft announces he's going back to London to arrange Sherlock's funeral, he avoids John’s gaze, but can tell the man is relieved.

"Oh Mycroft dear." Mummy sniffles. Father nods knowingly. John excuses himself, shutting himself away in his bedroom.

The remaining three eat in strained silence. "You were right Mycroft; he's not taking it well." Mummy says quietly. "You're sure we can't tell him?"

"It's safer for them both if we don't. John would only want to join him, and Sherlock would never forgive himself or me if John got hurt, or killed. No, better John believes a lie for a few months than he dies, you know Sherlock would go with him, he's not strong enough to cope without John." Mummy stares at Mycroft.

"And John is? You've seen him Mycroft you know what's going through his head. I can see it. He doesn't want to live. He's given up." Mummy is close to tears.

"John is strong, he'll pull through. That's why he's here, so we can keep an eye on him, help him live. It will only be a few months’ mummy, then they'll be back together."

"It's not just himself John is fighting, it's his wolf. Sherlock is his mate. His pack. And a lone wolf doesn't survive long on his own." Father chips in wisely. Mycroft glares at the united front his parents have formed.

"We will be his pack for now. We are his family after all." Mycroft snaps. "I have to go now, but I'll be back in a few days, Sherlock needs me." His parents nod.

 *  *  *  *  *

Two days later John stands at the grave of his best friend. The service was beautiful, small, with only the people that really knew and cared about Sherlock there: Greg, Mrs Hudson, his parents. But after that it felt like half of London came to see Sherlock’s coffin being lowered. They stood at a distance, letting the mourners have their space, but they were there, they cared about Sherlock. Even Donovan and Anderson had made it down, offering John weak apologies and condolences. John hadn't the energy to be angry at them. But now everyone has left bar John and the Holmes', who are waiting in the car to give John the space he needed.

He clears his throat.

"Sherlock I ... " his voice cracks. "Sherlock you... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man, ah' the most human... human being that I've ever known, even if you were a wolf half the time” John huffs a half-hearted laugh at this, “and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. That's so. There. I was so alone, and I owe you so much, but, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be... dead. Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this. I need you Sherlock.” He whispers.

John's hand brushes the cold marble of the headstone and he shivers slightly. It symbolised Sherlock almost perfectly. The dark colour emanating his hair, and his wolf fur, the sleek edges his flair for suits and impeccable dress sense. And the gold embossed letter his wealth, not only of money, but of knowledge and integrity. The coldness of the marble let the whole thing down slightly. Sure it would seem to emanate Sherlock’s cold exterior, but it didn't show the warmth he could show, how deeply he cared for people. John pulls one of Sherlock’s scarves out of his pocket. He presses against his nose briefly, inhaling Sherlock's scent. Carefully he drapes it over the gravestone. Completing the representation of Sherlock. The warmth of a scarf. For Sherlock. He takes a deep shuddering breath and turns away.


	6. Chapter 6

The weeks turn to months, then years and still Sherlock has not returned. John is now living permanently with Mummy and Mr. Holmes in the cottage. He started working at a local clinic, where he met his current girlfriend; Mary. Mummy is worried, their relationship is serious and Sherlock isn't back yet. Not that Mary knows about the wolf thing. In fact, that's one reason Mummy is worried. John’s not been shifting recently, he's not been a wolf in over three months and he's getting sick. He refuses to change, refuses to acknowledge that his wolf needs to be, he's part wild animal and the longer he denies it, the sicker he'll get. But when Mummy brings up the wolf casually in conversation John dismisses it, or worse ignores her.  When Mycroft visits in January, she shares her concerns.

"Mycroft, I'm worried about John. He's ignoring his wolf, he hasn't changed in months and he's sick I can see it, but he won't listen to me." Mycroft looks concerned, but quickly schools his face, so as not to worry his mother further.

"I'll talk to him, I'm sure he'll be fine." Mummy raises he eyebrows. "And where is Sherlock? That few months you promised us has turned into two years. And John's got a girlfriend!" Mummy sound almost scandalised. "I thought it was a phase, they were such good friends and then all of a sudden he announces he's planning to get engaged! Engaged Mycroft! And not to Sherlock either." Mummy's worked herself into a temper and Mycroft can't console her. "You listen to me Mycroft Holmes; you bring Sherlock home now, before John does something he regrets. I've not looked out for that boy for these past years for him to throw it all away, get married. He won't be happy, not like he is, was, with Sherlock."

"If the situation is really that dire I'm sure we can speed things up; I fly to Siberia tomorrow." Mycroft twists his umbrella in his hands. They both look up as the front door opens and closes again. John appears in the doorway, a smile on his face, and yet it doesn't seem to quite reach his eyes. It rarely does these days.

"What are you so happy about mister?" Mummy's all smiles and teasing tones now. John pulls a small box out of his pocket. Mummy's eyes go wide and she shoots a pointed look at Mycroft.

"Picked it out today." He says opening the box up. Nestled in the fabric is a delicate silver band, encrusted with a large gem. "We're having dinner tomorrow evening, I'm gonna ask her then." John is all smiles. "Oh, hi Mycroft. You staying for dinner? Mummy's doing Bolognese."

"I'm afraid I just popped into to inform mummy I'm leaving the country this evening." Mummy doesn’t miss the fact Mycroft is now leaving earlier due to John’s announcement. She nods at him.

"Okay" John says oblivious. "Enjoy your trip." He's long since stopped asking where Mycroft's going or when he'll be back. "I hope you can come to the wedding; I wouldn't want my family to miss it." He smiles again; it almost breaks mummy's heart. John had been welcome into this family with open arms, with both his parents dead, and his sister estranged, John had no one else, and they’d been there when he's needed someone most. And mummy always insisted he call her mummy so it was a natural progression that John called the Holmes' his family.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world John." Mycroft replied smoothly, and sincerely - if John truly wanted to marry this Mary woman then Mycroft would be there, not even WWIII would stop him being there for John. But for now he would focus on bringing Sherlock back in one piece, and give him back to John before tomorrow evening. Once John proposed that would be it, John was a man of his word and unlikely to back out, even if it meant leaving his mate. As Mycroft steps out of the cottage he is texting Anthea to get the jet ready, they leave this evening. He directs the driver to his private airstrip and is in Siberia by midnight.

*  *  *  *  *

He plays his part convincingly if he does say so but Sherlock still works it out. "It's your scent Mycroft, I know your scent, could find you a mile away." Sherlock tells him. Mycroft smiles flattered, kind of. Sherlock hesitates. "How is John?" Mycroft's face falls.

"He is doing well, but we must bring everything forward, you must be in London by this evening. That does not afford us much time." Sherlock is instantly suspicious.

"What's happening tonight?" He asks. Mycroft pauses, then with a sigh announces.

"John is planning on proposing to his girlfriend." Sherlock’s hackles raise, metaphorically, his human form tenses.

"Girlfriend?" He snarls. Mycroft puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder. "Yes, and if we don't get you back before then he'll marry her despite knowing you're alive, he's a man of his word and if he proposes he will marry the girl." He thinks for a second then adds, "She doesn't make him happy Sherlock.  He thinks he does but she doesn't. He is denying his wolf. Hasn't changed in months. He needs you. He's always needed you. No one else." Sherlock nods stiffly.

"I trust your plane is close by." His tone is clipped. Mycroft nods. Instantly there is a wolf by Mycroft's side. The wolf howls mournfully, then plunges into the snow, forging a path for his brother to follow. He stays a wolf for most of the flight, changing only so the medical staff can assess his wounds. He feels like snapping at them, only John can tend his wounds. His doctor, his mate. 'But John’s abandoning you' a small voice says. He brushes it aside. Closing his eyes against the pain. They stitch up his bullet holes, try to give him a sedative - which he refuses - and then finally leave him alone. He strips off the clothes he's wearing, and replaces them with the suit Mycroft has brought him. All that’s missing is his belstaff. The sun is just peering across the horizon when they touchdown on a private airstrip in Cornwall.

"Baker Street." Sherlock orders Mycroft. His brother raises an eyebrow.

"John is not at Baker Street anymore. He's been living with mummy and father at the cottage." Sherlock stares at his brother.

"What has happened to Baker Street?" He demands. "Mrs Hudson?" Mycroft chuckles.

"Mrs Hudson agreed to continue leasing it to me. John pops in and sees her every Tuesday and Friday, and I see her every Monday to make sure the flat is still in order." The added ‘and make sure she's alright’, goes unsaid but Sherlock hears it loud and clear. He nods his thanks. Mrs Hudson was like a mother to him, and he was fiercely protective if her, even before the wolf.

"To the cottage then, I'm sure mummy will be pleased to see me at least." Sherlock’s voice has lost its bite. He slips into the waiting car, Mycroft beside him. Sherlock collects his thoughts during the car ride. Filling away all the horrible things that have happened in the last two years, and pulling out memories of John, enveloping himself in the man’s scent as best he can from memory, just as he's done in the bad times recently. But the memory is old and the scent musty and incomplete. Sherlock whines for his mate. Mycroft touches his shoulder lightly when they arrive. It's mid-morning so John should be at work. Sherlock makes to get out the car but Mycroft stops him, "don't let John know they knew you were alive. It would destroy their relationship, and probably him too, he relied on them a lot while you were away, considers them his family. Don't ruin it by trying to be blasé about the whole thing. Please." Mycroft's sincerity strikes Sherlock and he nods. He stands, staring up at the cottage with apprehension. The car door slams behind Mycroft and kick starts Sherlock into action. He walks calmly up to the front door and opens it gently. A barrage of scents hit him, mummy, father, home, John. He inhales deeply, before stepping over the threshold.

"Andrew honey is that you?" Mummy Holmes steps out of the kitchen and drops the spatula she is holding. "Sherlock!" She whispers, then louder. "Sherlock!" Before he knows what's happening he's being enveloped in a hug. He plays the aloof Sherlock that is expected of him, patting her back awkwardly and trying to pull away, but secretly he revels in the ability to be hugged, to smell his mother and her cooking once more. "It so good to have you back with us Sherlock. Your father's just popped to the shop to get me more milk, I'm making lemon cake, come help me dear and I’ll fill you in on all you've missed" she pulls him into the kitchen where he sits in the counter. It reminds him of his childhood. Sitting on the kitchen counter at the manor whilst mummy baked, telling her about his day, the deductions he had made. The domesticity of it makes him smile. "Mycroft probably told you, but John's been living with us in the cottage. He was in a bad way after you left. Here you can lick the spoon." She says distractedly handing him the wooden spoon she's been using to stir the mixture. "Anyway, he came to stay so we could keep an eye on him, and never left. The poor dear. Of course we didn't mind. Oh hello Arthur, yes Sherlock’s back, now did you get the milk? Oh good." Sherlock’s father smiles when he sees Sherlock sitting in the kitchen. 

"John will be happy to see you, did you know he's got a girlfriend. Silly I know.” Father comments warmly. Mummy flaps at him.

"I was just getting there; anyway, John started working in the local clinic, that's where he is now, and next thing I know he's talking about some Mary girl. Goodness knows I tried to be supportive whilst discouraging the whole thing, but now it looks like he's going to propose! So I said to Mycroft, I said, you bring Sherlock back right now or John will be off with someone else. Or worse too sick to do anything. And here you are." She smiles fondly at her son, and caresses his cheek. "You must make him see Sherlock, he can't ignore his wolf. It'll be the death of him." Her voice is sad.

"I plan to do just that, mummy, John is mine and she can't have him." Sherlock’s tone is possessive, almost a growl. Father glances sharply at his son.

"You best wash up, John won't be back for a couple of hours, and I doubt you want to make a scene at the clinic." Andrew says.

Whilst Sherlock is in the shower John texts mummy to tell her he won't be in for dinner as he's taking Mary out, and they're going straight from the clinic to the restaurant. Mummy panics. She hammers on the door of the shower.

"Sherlock, change of plans, you'll have to go to the restaurant, John's not coming back here. Get out of the shower." By the time Sherlock opens the door she's slightly hysterical. He shakes her.

"It will be fine mother, John cannot refuse his mate, and I am his mate." He moves to the spare room, no, not the spare room, John’s room. He stops in the doorway, surveying the very Johness of the room. Picking up his deodorant, which sits, as he knew it would on John’s bed side table. John will know his scent regardless, but somehow he needs the smell to complete his refreshening. It's a good ten minutes before he leaves the room, nine and a half more than necessary.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should just point out, I don't hate Mary. In fact I love the way Amanda Abington has played her in Sherlock BBC. It just so happens that in this fic I used her as a plot device rather than expanding her character - also I'm aware this version of her sucks, but I needed to further the story somehow, so sorry.  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter.  
> Moomin x

The restaurant is typical John, classy but not too flashy, serving traditional dishes and not the fancy sort with names no one can pronounce. Sherlock scans the room; he spots an anxious looking John across the room. It freezes him in place, he has to fight the wolf for control, so as not to bolt across the room. Instead, he makes his way steadily between the tables towards his mate. A woman sits down opposite John and his face lights up, it stops Sherlock in his tracks. Can he ruin this happiness by turning up now, just as he's about to propose? What if John doesn't take him back? It's clear he moved on? It's mummy's voice that spurs him forward, John is ignoring the wolf, he is getting sick, and it is her fault. He must rescue John from himself. John is standing, Sherlock quickens his pace. Just as John reaches a hand into his jacket pocket he stills. Nose raised slightly he shakes himself, telling himself the scent can't be there, he's making it up. And yet. Slowly he turns, Sherlock is less than a foot away and their eyes lock. Happiness, confusion anger, all flit across John's face in a matter of moments, before he's launching himself at Sherlock. The taller man has no time to calculate whether or not John is about to hit him when the other man lands on him. Their lips crush together and then John pulls way and punches Sherlock squarely in the face. Sherlock cups a hand to his now bleeding nose.

"Outside" John growls, grabbing the front of Sherlock’s shirt and hauling him out the restaurant. "Sorry Mary, I won't be a moment." He says as they pass the table.

The cold air hits them both as they step into the pavement. "You bastard! I can't believe you did that to me Sherlock! One word was all I would have needed, one word to let me know you we're alive. Jesus. I'm fighting the urge to go wolf on you and tear you apart. I can't believe you. And I bet you knew I was proposing to Mary tonight. That's why you come swanning in now, can't let me be happy. No, John can't get married to someone else, but Sherlock isn't going to stick around either. John has to be alone. You git." John is furious pacing back and forth. Sherlock is still trying desperately to stem the blood flow from his nose, and he's fairly certain he's torn some stitches too. John finally notices something's wrong when Sherlock falls over. "Sherlock! Sherlock!" John’s voice has lost its bite and is now all concern. "Let me see, what have you done to yourself. Tip your head forward, there we go, right lift up your shirt. No don't laugh I'm still mad at you, no sexual connotations, purely doctor John right now. Now lift up your shirt. You're bleeding. Sherlock why have you got stitches?"

"I was shot John. Obviously." Sherlock replies, but voice thick with blood it comes out more like. "I wad shod John obvioudly"

John hits Sherlock’s arm. "Git"

"You keep saying that." Sherlock notes.

"That's because you are, now let me stitch you back up."

"In the middle of the pavement?"

"Yes! Just do it Sherlock." Sherlock complies. The ever resourceful John pulls a mini medi kit out his pocket and threads a needle. "This is gonna hurt okay?" He doesn't wait for a reply, just jabs Sherlock with the needle. It's what he deserves he supposes. John finishes and helps him stand. Sherlock inspects the neat row of stitches John has done. Smaller and neater than those done by Mycroft's supposedly highly trained medical staff. Oh how he's missed John. He sways on his feet a little, and John puts an arm round him. "Jawn" he slurs. "I live you Jawn" unbidden a small smile makes its way onto John’s face.

"You live me Sherlock. Are you sure?"

"Mmmm. Love you Jawn." Mary chooses this moment to step outside to find John. Finding him locked in an embrace with the slightly swaying Sherlock whose busy professing his love. She scowls.

"So much for only a moment, you seem rather tied up John." John breaks away from Sherlock slightly.

"Mary! It's not what it looks like, this is an old friend, Sherlock, the one I thought was dead." Mary's face softens slightly.

"Oh, I see, well he doesn't look very dead to me." Sherlock growls at her. John whacks his arm, silencing the taller man.

"No, believe me I was as surprised as you are, I need to have a talk with Mycroft evidently."

"Your brother?" Mary asks clearly confused. Sherlock frowns.

"Mycroft's my brother, not John’s."

Mary turns a glare onto John, "you lied about that too huh? I take it your parents are also not yours." John shakes his head,

"Mummy and father are Sherlock’s parent biologically, but they are as close to family as I will get, Mrs Hudson too, more of a mother than my own." John’s voice is suddenly biting.

"I can't trust you about anything can I?" Mary retorts. "Your friend comes swanning in after all this time and bam, suddenly your whole life is a lie. And you abandon me for everything you left behind when he died. I really thought you loved me, thought I loved you, but I don't, I hate you" Mary's voice is cold. Sherlock’s warmth abruptly leaves John’s arms and a snarling mass of black fur is standing atop Mary who is now lying on the pavement screaming.

"Sherlock" John’s voice is sharp, although he is aching to change and greet Sherlock’s wolf. "Change back now before someone sees you, you're in no fit state to be running through London chased by exterminators." Sherlock relents and changes back just as the first few people come barrelling out of the restaurant. John crouches beside the wailing Mary. "Shhh it's okay love you okay."  He says loud enough for the growing crowd to hear. "It's alright I'm a doctor." He tells everyone. "She slipped over, hit her head I think." Quieter he whispers to Mary. "Go along with it or you'll get a nasty visit from Mycroft, and two very angry wolves out for blood. You slipped and hit your head, there was no wolf, no argument." Her eyes are blown wide on fear and without hesitation she nods. Eyeing Sherlock warily. The man himself is sitting on the ground not far away, clutching his side, and barely containing a growl, seeing John so close to that woman, she insulted him, them. She had to pay. Someone has called an ambulance and Mary is made to sit in the back while they check her over.

"Concussion I think." John chips in. The paramedics nod and cart her off to hospital for proper examination. Sherlock leans against John as they watch the ambulance drive into the distance. They stand there until its long since gone. Finally, John breaks the silence. "I guess I'm not getting married then." He comments jokingly. "Wouldn't want to break your track record I guess, of ruining all my relationships." Sherlock regards John carefully before replying.

"Don't be silly John. Of course you're getting married."

John snorts, "Somehow I don't think Mary will have me." He turns to face Sherlock, who’s a just pulled something out of his pocket. John’s breath catches when he realises what it is. The box is small and velvet lined. Sherlock opens it and inside nestled between the fabric is a plain silver band.

"Will you marry me John?" Sherlock asks. His voice is deep and husky, nerves flutter in his stomach. John nods slowly.

"Yes, yes I will marry you, you git. Probably against all advice after all you left me, turned up and ruined my engagement plans. But you're my mate, I couldn't not marry you." Sherlock sighs in relief and slips the band onto John's finger. John studies the ring. Engraved into its surface is a simple message _“Afghanistan or Iraq?”_ He chuckles, only Sherlock would think that romantic, still John treasures those words, and all the ones Sherlock has said to him since.

"I was going to ask you before. But then everything with Moriarty happened and I never got the chance." Sherlock’s voice shakes slightly. John smiles sadly, "let’s not dwell in that." He says, brushing his lips gently against Sherlock’s.

"I did it to protect you John, the fall, dismantling Moriarty's network. All to protect you, my mate. I know it was hard for you, and I'm sorry. But I couldn't let you get hurt, be in danger like that." Sherlock shakes his head sorrowfully. "It was hell being away from you for so long. I didn't think it would be too bad, but the wolf, it was pining for you. I'm sorry." John cups a hand to Sherlock’s face.

"Hey now, it's okay. I'm just glad you're back with me. Safe. Don't get me wrong I could tear you apart for leaving me, but I love you. And I just need you near me for now. I forgive you Sherlock."

*  *  *  *  *

They walk back to the cottage, talking through the past couple of years. How John got a job at the clinic, moved in with Sherlock’s parents. When they reach the edge of the Holmes' land Sherlock changes bounding along towards the wooded area behind the house. John follows suit, ruffling and shaking his fur out. It feels so good to be back as a wolf. He feels so alive after two years of coasting through life. To run beside Sherlock again, that was living. He nuzzles into Sherlock’s side, nipping playfully at the other wolf's ears. A rabbit startles out of the undergrowth and Sherlock bounds after it, snapping his jaws. John streaks past him and closes his jaws around the poor animal, triumphantly. Somehow he felt no remorse for killing the rabbit. It was nature’s way, and John was a part of that. Sherlock growls playfully at his mate, launching himself at the other wolf and tussling in the grass. John lets out a sharp bark of laughter. Finally, he gives in, letting Sherlock’s wolf stand over him. The two wolves gaze at each other. They shift simultaneously, becoming a tangle of human limbs.

"John." Sherlock breaths, misting the air between them. John replies by crushing their mouths together. They move in sync, clothes are discarded, lying in the grass beside them. Sherlock peppers John's neck with kisses, which turn into bites.

"My pack. My mate. Mine." Sherlock growls, marking John for all the world to see.

"Yes" John replied. "Yours and no one else's." he arcs against Sherlock. Everywhere Sherlock touches feels like electricity pouring through him, and Sherlock’s skin is pressed against John the entire length of his body. They make love into the night, rediscovering every inch of each other. The woodland is quiet around them as John collapses onto Sherlock, nuzzling his face into his partner’s neck. Sherlock circles his arms round John, never wanting to let go again.

"I love you Sherlock" John yawns, falling into a dreamless sleep, the best he's had in two years.

"I love you too John." Sherlock mumbles into John’s hair, his own eyes heavy and rapidly closing. The pair fall asleep in one another's arms under the stars. Content, happy, for the first time in two years.


	8. Chapter 8

John wakes in Sherlock’s arms, curled close to his side. He inhales the familiar scent of his mate, and watches as he sleeps. The gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way those wayward curls tumble across his forehead. John smiles, stretching up to ghost a kiss on Sherlock’s brow. The air is crisp and cool, John shivers slightly in the breeze. Sherlock tenses beside him, eyes flying open, but lacking the clarity that usually fills them.

"John!" Sherlock cries anguished. "John. John. John." It's like a mantra, a desperate, pleading mantra. John wraps his arms around his mate, tangling his hands in those inky black curls and whispering platitudes. Slowly, oh so slowly, Sherlock's eyes clear and focus on John's face hovering above him. The relief on his face breaks John's heart a little more. Whatever hell John thought he was in these past two years, it's suddenly clear Sherlock had it worse.  Sherlock pulls John down to him, lips hungrily moving against his. When they break apart they're both breathing heavily, locked in each other’s gaze. John doesn't push Sherlock to tell him what's wrong, just looks at him searchingly. Sherlock looks away, and John rolls off him.

John stares up at the sky, the stars above him. Sherlock is tracing patterns on his arm, up and down in swirling soothing patterns. He shivers and sits up, pulling on his trousers. Sherlock watches him for a moment, unwilling to shatter the moment by leaving this place. When John tugs his jumper over his head Sherlock sighs, giving in he gets up, and sets about recovering his suit from the damp grass. His stomach is still sticky as he buttons the shirt over it, and his face brightens with the prospect of a shower, a shared shower. He threads his fingers through John's, and tugs the other man to his side, kissing him sweetly on the lips. They walk back to the cottage like that, hand in hand. Light illuminates the curtains in the living room, letting the pair know that someone is up, probably Mummy Holmes worrying for them. Indeed, when they slip through the door she is there waiting for them. Her eyes light up when she sees them. Her eyes glisten and she clasps her hands against her chest.

"Oh boys!"  Sherlock rolls his eyes, but can't stop the smile that stretches across his face. She cups a hand against Sherlock’s cheek, her eyes fixed on John,

"I can't believe he's back John, alive." She too had been forewarned by Mycroft. John’s ignorance of their knowledge was best. John releases Sherlock’s hand and pulls Mrs Holmes in for a hug.

"Neither can I mummy, neither can I." His face is damp, and it sets mummy off, the tears trickling down her cheeks.

"We're going to shower and then retire to bed mummy, we'll see you in the morning." Sherlock says, patting his mother’s shoulder, and taking John's hand in his once again. The simple touch was something they both needed, the contact their wolves craved. Mummy bids them goodnight, and they ascend the stairs, Sherlock pulling John into the bathroom. He strips his partner quickly, efficiently. Tugging his own clothes off and stepping into the shower tray, pulling John after him. The water thunders down on them, Sherlock takes a cloth and gently washes John, kissing him gently all the while. John keeps his eyes locked on Sherlock’s as he returns the favour, wiping Sherlock clean. They didn't dare do anything more, with Sherlock’s parents on the other side of the wall.

The bed felt infinitely more comfortable now Sherlock was with him, John thought. Sherlock’s arms wrap around John, and John nestles his face in the crook of his mate’s neck, inhaling his scent with every breath. John falls asleep quickly, his deep even breathing mesmerising Sherlock, and yet he couldn't drift off himself. Kept turning events over in his mind, his nightmare, John's comfort, unquestioning comfort. His heart swells when he thinks of it, thinks that the man in his arms is his fiancé, would be recognised by all as his for ever more. He buries his nose in John's hair and slowly drifts asleep, a smile etched on his face.

 *  *  *  *  *

"Mummy" John says once they'd all sat down at the table and tucked into breakfast, Mrs Holmes had done proper full English in celebration of Sherlock’s return.

"Yes dear?"

"Sherlock and I have something we want to announce." He smiles at Sherlock. "Don't we." Mummy looks at him expectantly. Sherlock can feel Mycroft's intense gaze on him. Sweat trickles down his neck, but John takes his hand under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. John always knew when something was wrong, and how he could fix it. "Mummy, Father, Mycroft. You've welcomed me into this family with open arms, supported me when I needed it most. And I'm proud to call you my family, and so I think, I hope, that you will support me in this, support us in this." John raises their entwined hands, resting them on the table. His ring gleams in the bright daylight. Mummy gasps, Mr Holmes reaches out and squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder and Mycroft nods his understanding.

"Married, my boys are getting married." Mummy weeps joyfully, "Oh John of course, I'm so proud to call you my son, as proud as I am of Sherlock and Mycroft." John flushes, and it's Sherlock’s turn to squeeze his hand in comfort.

"I was thinking a spring wedding, April?" Sherlock says pitching the question to John, who nods, a smile forever on his face. Sherlock was back, impossibly, John was whole again, and they would never be separated again, John could’ve combusted from happiness. And to think, he’d thought he’d been happy yesterday, about to sign his life away to a woman who, evidently, couldn’t cope with a few mistruths, let alone compare to Sherlock Holmes. The Wolf within him rumbles with pleasure, and impulsively he leans forward to kiss his mate, grinning from ear-to-ear at the look of surprise, happiness, **love** on the genius detective’s face – John had put that there. With the sunlight poking through the clouds, the warmth of the kitchen, and the pleasant company John would be content to live in this moment forever.

Sherlock was wrapped in his head also, cataloguing every smile, gesture, flicker of John’s eyes. His chest ached from the weight of his pain, the still healing bruises and the never visible mental scars the past two years had caused, but through it all John stood, anchoring him back to reality, with the promise of forever. The promise of lazy mornings and cross-London murder chases, of kisses and sex, and a **life**. With all that wrapped in the eyes of a jumper clad, ex-military doctor, a wolf very much in sheep’s clothing, Sherlock found that the weight of the world – which had weighed heavily on him – suddenly seemed lighter, as if he could at last catch a breath of fresh air. The detective sent a silent thanks to whoever was watching over them, to Mother and Father, and even Mycroft for making sure that he could have this happiness. That at the end of all the tasks and trials, he had come out with his flatmate, his blogger, his Mate, his **John** , by his side. In the end, all Sherlock would ever need was John, because with him, everything was just a little more bearable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I hope the ending wasn't too bad, I literally wrote it in like two minutes before I posted this because I realised the chapter didn't really end anywhere conclusive. This is kinda the end, HOWEVER, I have another chapter, it's just a really horrible way to end the fic, but the idea wouldn't go away, so what I'm going to do is post an authors note chapter between this and the epilogue thing, just in case you don't read my comment and get a shock, there's nothing worse than going through a fic and then wham! at the end there's a curveball and you're left feeling a little numb.   
> To sum up: This is the end, unless you want to be punched in the feels, in which case read on.  
> Moomin x


	9. Chapter 9

AUTHORS NOTE!!

This is just the warning I said I would give you guys in case any of you didn't read the notes at the end of the last chapter. The next chapter is part of the story, but also completely optional because I really didn't was to end it like this - the last chapter was meant to be the end (or something at least happy). However, the idea for the next chapter wouldn't go away until I had written it, and having done so it felt wrong to deprive you guys of the full story, so *deep breath* Please don't hate me, and click on, to read the ending.

Moomin x

P.S I'm really sorry :(

PP.S Major Character death up next - you have been warned!

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major Character death!!!

John watches it happen in slow motion, not believing his eyes. It’s happening again, after all the happy times, it's happening again. Sherlock hits the ground with a sickening thud as his assailant removes his blade. John crosses the room in seconds, an angry grey wolf landing on Sherlock's attacker and viciously ripping his throat out. He leaps away before the body hits the floor and is kneeling by Sherlock's side. The detectives eyes flutter once, twice and blood froths at his mouth "John," it's little more than a rasping sound and then stillness. John's hands trace the contours of his husband’s face, willing those beautiful eyes to open again, tell him this is all a façade, that it’s all fake like last time. He shakes the body when nothing happens, can hear the anguish in his own voice as he pleads.

"Sherlock, wake up, tell me it’s not true. Sherlock!" His sharp ears pick up the sounds of the black car as it skids to a halt, knows the sounds of expensive shoes accompanied by the tapping of an umbrella, he raises his head to meet Mycroft's gaze. The man has leapt out of the car before it even came to a stop, his face is flush and his eyes full of pain, John can’t cope with the reality he sees there.

"Tell me." He begs. "Tell me it’s a lie, he's not dead, tell me Mycroft. I don't care that you're not supposed to, just tell me god dammit." Mycroft Holmes is lost for words, as he stares into the eyes of his brother in law. The hopelessness in his eyes, he shakes his head.

"John." He watches as the other man crumples. John had known, but the conformation Mycroft offers sends fresh shards of pain spiking through him.

"No. No. No no nonono." John glares, new resistance forming. He stands, fists clenching. "No. You're lying. He's alive. He has to be." A growl accompanies his words. Mycroft aches to hold his brother, cradle the body in his arms, as he had done when he was a child. He'd looked after Sherlock, been a father to him. Mycroft pushes down these feelings, he must protect John first, Sherlock would have wanted that. Besides his brother-in-law won't let him near the body yet.

"John, he's gone." John flinches.

"Then kill me too." The stark honesty and wanting in John's voice startles Mycroft. John wishes to die.

"You know I can't do that." Mycroft replies, struggling to keep his mask of 'Iceman' firmly in place. John growls at him, taking a step forward. In the corner of his eye Mycroft sees his protection details move, filtering into position. He shakes his head, flicking his fingers to tell them to stand down. John catches this movement, inhales deeply, and a smiles flickers across his face. It chills Mycroft, that is not the smile that usually graces Johns face. Before he can register John shifts, launching himself onto Mycroft and knocking him down. John's claws shred the front of Mycroft's expensive suit but he doesn't care. Even he hears the clicks as his men snap into position, readying their weapons.

"Stand down." He calls, icily, still staring into the eyes of a wolf. He knows it’s dangerous, locking eyes with an alpha, an upset alpha, but he needs to convey this message. "I will not hurt you John." He says softly. The wolf snarls, snapping his teeth close to Mycroft's neck. Mycroft knows that John won't hurt him either. The wolf retreats, his eyes light up suddenly, and he wheels around, making straight for one of Mycroft's men. The man is well trained, and doesn't move an inch as the wolf barrels towards him. His weapon is trained to the floor even as John knocks him down. The wolf stares at him hungrily, trying to provoke the agent into attack. When this fails he turns, making a beeline for the next, and the next. None of the agents move. John howls in frustration. Mycroft had handpicked his protection detail, all of them were trained to the highest standards, and knew about the two wolves, knew that attacking them would be their last mistake. The wolf lopes miserably back to Sherlock, allowing his mates scent to overcome him, but it is tainted now, with blood and death. This time John's howl is fill of anguish, loss and longing. He curls next to Sherlock's body, nuzzling his muzzle into the man’s neck. He hears Mycroft approach but has no energy left to even look at him. When the needle pricks at his skin he doesn't resist, falling gratefully into a deep sleep.

The agents carry the wolf into the back of the posh car, laying him delicately on the back seat. Meanwhile Mycroft is knelt beside the body of his baby brother, cradling the boy in his arms, and if tears track down his face that's between him and Sherlock. He looks like he's sleeping, the blood stain along his front the only indication that he isn't. "I couldn't save you this time brother, I'm sorry." Mycroft picks up the body, carrying it delicately to the private ambulance that has pulled up, he lays his brother to rest in the back, kissing his forehead for the last time.

"Sir" the driver says. "I'm sorry for your loss." It isn't his place to say anything, but he's been contracted to Mr Holmes long enough, patched up both brothers more times than he'd like to count, since they were both but boy's, and feels the loss as if it were his own. Mycroft Holmes nods his head once, and turns on his heel, striding over to Sherlock's killer. The body is partially decapitated, but Mycroft is almost disappointed that John dealt with the man. Mycroft would have made him suffer a lot worse.

He slides in the car beside the sleeping John and lays a hand in the wolfs fur. It's an offence he knows, to pet a wolf, but he needs the comfort, much as he is loath to admit it. How to tell mummy that her baby boy is dead? He sighs, there is so much work to be done, he must push aside his emotion, it is a chemical defect found in the losing side, he reminds himself. Pulling out his phone he steels himself for all the things that must be put in motion.

*  *  *  *  *

They fall back into an old routine, last seen almost eight years ago when Sherlock faked his death, now the reality weighs heavy in all their hearts. John is staying once more with the Holmes parents at the cottage, sitting in front of the fire and letting cups of tea go cold beside him. On the third day John enters the kitchen and smiles at Mummy, she almost faints. He pecks her on the cheek and sits at the table, pouring himself a bowl of cereal it's the first thing he's eaten in days.

The day passes slowly, but John doesn’t mind so much, he drinks in the sight of Mrs Holmes making lunch, even as tears track down her face. Mrs Hudson sit’s prattling on about anything and everything that isn’t Sherlock (having come to stay with the Holmes’ as well, John couldn’t bear to leave her alone at Baker Street again). He sits by the fire with Mr Holmes and they discuss the latest novel he’s read. When Mycroft emerges for lunch, looking dishevelled and just wrong, in plain clothes and not a tailored suit, John suggests they all go for a walk in the grounds – anything to get out of the stifling cottage. The grounds are bursting with life at this time of year, and they wander through the wildlife in contemplative silence.

When dusk falls and dinner has been eaten, John bids his goodnights and slips away to his room, steeling himself for the task at hand. By 11 pm it is done. It is Mycroft who discovers him, when he checks in on the man at midnight. He doesn’t make it past the doorway before falling to his knees. The thud brings Mummy running, her scream alerting the others. John’s body is cold, neatly presented to them in his Military uniform and lying peacefully on the bed. The only indication that anything is wrong is the pallid colour of the man’s skin, and the non-movement of his chest. An empty bottle of sleeping pills stands on the side table, and, folded neatly and sealed with wax are letters for each of them, propped up against the lamp. Mr Holmes is the one to enter, to check for pulse everyone knew was long gone. He sighs heavily and bows his head. Mycroft sobs.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The day of the funeral dawns bright and clear, seemingly mocking the Holmes’ family, who stand in mourning at the soon to-be joint grave of Sherlock and John. The casket – closed for the main ceremony – is open for the last farewells of the boys’ family. Mrs Hudson sniffles and turns away into the embrace of Mrs Holmes who’s desperately weeping into her handkerchief. “Our poor boys.” They cry to each other, inconsolable.

Mr Holmes is next nodding sharply in respect and turning away before he can shed his tears. Lestrade too is there, standing resolutely next to Mycroft.

“You were my best friends, a pain in my arse most of the time, but damn well worth it, and you don’t deserve this. I’m sorry.” He pauses, wringing his hands awkwardly for a second. “It’s stupid, but I just thought… well” From within his trouser pocket, the detective inspector withdraws a small bronze statue. The Wolves are intricately detailed and stand proud, tails woven together. The detective places them in the folds of the lining, between the heads of the bodies. “Had them made specially, thought it was fitting, given… well you know.” He coughs gruffly and steps back. Running a hand over his tired face. “I…. goodbye Sherlock, John. I hope wherever you are you’re together, and running free.” He backs away slowly, until it is only Mycroft standing beside his brothers, head bowed and gazed fixed fervently on the pair, drinking in the detail, even if it’s a tad morbid, he needs all the data he can get to remember them clearly, a backlog of features, smiles, hum in his brain as he slots information in place.

“Sherlo-ck” his voice cracks, ‘sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side’ Mycroft chants to himself, until he is sure he can speak again. “I’m sorry for everything I did to upset you – it was me who threw out your frog project when you were 8, and I’m the one who took Redbeard to the vet that day, without letting you say goodbye, you blamed them, but it was me, I knew you’d never let him go if you knew. I will not apologise for my meddling, I did it with your best interests at heart, and it saved your life more times than you know, yours and John's. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be there this time, sorry I left John alone long enough for this to happen too, though can you really blame him? The Baskerville incident really wasn’t my fault, but if It had been, then I wouldn’t be sorry for that, it brought the two of you closer, it brought you out into what you always were meant to be I think, in the end.” Mycroft tears his gaze away from the once silken curls and opulent features of his brother, casting his eyes instead to John. “I’m truly sorry John, that this happened, that you thought this was the only way, but I understand. You and Sherlock shared something, few, if anyone else has… had. I will remember you fondly as not only the only nutter able to put up with and control my brother, but as my brother yourself. For my part in deceiving you after Sherlock faked his death, I am sorry, and for my part in your lives, your part in mine, I am thankful. You were a brave and loyal man, a testament to your country, and this family.” From inside his jacket Mycroft pulls out an envelope, slightly worn around the edges from where the man has been worrying it for the past four days. Printed neatly on the front, in John’s no nonsense handwriting; Sherlock. It’s still sealed, and Mycroft has no intention for it ever to be opened, much as John wished. With one last long look at his brothers, Mycroft tucks the envelope into Sherlock’s breast pocket, and turns away. Behind him, the casket is closed, a flag draped over and a six-gun salute echoes around the graveyard. The casket is lowered, and with an air of finality Mycroft steps forward to place the first handful of dirt. It scatters dismally, and Mycroft lets out a single short sob before collecting himself once more. In the distance, as if called to, a lone wolf’s howl cuts through the air, joined by another, and another, until the air is filled by the melancholy sound. The funeral gatherers stop, heads turning towards the sound. As the last shovel of dirt is filled in the howls trail off until just two remain – the alpha pair – their voices raise one last note and then they’re gone, and with them, so are the last remnants Sherlock and John are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it. I'm sorry if it's not what you were expecting after I made such a big deal about it, also I know nothing about military funerals etc. and mean no disrespect if I've completely mucked things up (with the gun salute thing).  
> Thanks for reading.  
> Moomin x


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